Between my finger and my thumb

在我的食指与拇指之间

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

夹着粗短的笔；舒适如一支枪。

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

我窗下，传来清脆的锉磨声

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

当铁铲切入含砂砾的地面：

My father, digging. I look down

父亲在挖掘。我往下看

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

直到他绷紧的臀部在花圃间

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

弯下去又挺起来，恍若二十年前

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

他有节奏地弓身于马铃薯垄

Where he was digging.

在那里挖掘。

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

粗陋的靴踩着铲头，柄

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

贴着膝盖内侧使劲撬动；

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

他锄掉高高的叶茎，将明亮的铲边深深埋进去，

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

把新马铃薯掀到四下里，我们拾起，

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

喜欢它们在我们手里冷硬的感觉。

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

上帝作证，老头还能挥舞铁铲。

Just like his old man.

如同他的老头。

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

祖父一天里在托纳沼泽地

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

铲的泥炭比任何人都要多。

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

有一次我给他送一瓶牛奶，

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

用纸随便塞住瓶口。他直起身

To drink it, then fell to right away

喝了，又立即开始干活，

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

利落地又切又割，把草泥

Over his shoulder, going down and down

抛到肩后，不断往深处

For the good turf. Digging.

寻找好泥炭。挖掘。

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

马铃薯霉的冷味，湿泥炭的嘎扎声

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

和啪嗒声，切下活根茎的短促刀声

Through living roots awaken in my head.

在我头脑里回响。

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

但我没有像他们那样干活的铁铲。

Between my finger and my thumb

在我的食指与拇指之间

The squat pen rests.

夹着这支粗短的笔。

I’ll dig with it.

我将用它挖掘。